De Amerikaanse schrijver O.Henry, pseudoniem van William Sydney Porter , werd geboren in Greensboro (North Carolina) op 11 september 1862. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
Uit: The Gift of the Magi
“There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Delia’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Delia would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped and sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”.
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.
“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both.”
O. Henry (11 september 1862 – 5 juni 1910)
De Duitse schrijver, kunstenaar en kunstverzamelaar Joachim Fernau werd geboren in Bromberg op 11 september 1909. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
Uit: Deutschland, Deutschland über alles…
“Als mein und Ihr Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-Großvater am Morgen des 30. Oktober 1268 unter dem dicken Federberg aufwachten, zum Fenster schlurrten und durch die Butzenscheiben auf die herbstlich neblige Straße hinausschauten, auf der die ersten Planwagen aus der Stadt rumpelten, da konnten sie keinerlei sonderliche Veränderung der Welt feststellen. Aus der Gosse stank es immer noch so bestialisch, die Köter jaulten in den Abfällen der engen Höfe herum, die Magd plagte sich am Herd mit dem Feuerschlagen, und der Mesner läutete zur ersten Messe. Darauf erwachte Ihre und meine Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-UrGroßmutter und setzte sich aufrecht im Bett auf. Neben ihr auf dem Bettischchen lag ein Bund Schlüssel, stets griffbereit, denn die »Schlüsselgewalt« war die höchste Ehre der Frau. Unsere Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-Großmutter hatte ein Nachtgewand an, das etwa das Dreifache einer modernen Ballausrüstung betrug. Sie erhob sich und begab sich in die schon etwas überschlagen warme Küche, wo sie sich in einem Holzbottich sorgfältig bis zum Hals ausschnitt wusch. Die Magd flocht dann ihr Haar und setzte ihr die lange, spitze Haube auf, die ihr als ehrbar<‘f Ehefrau zustand. Ihr guter Onkel, der ein Fernlaster-Unternehmen zwischen Mainz und Frankfurt besaß, hatte sie vor 20 Jahren unter die Haube gebracht. Heute war sie die Frau Schultheiß in, das heißt, ihr Mann, den wir eben in Pantoffeln zum Fenster schlurren und die Messe verpassen sahen, war Stadt-Schultheiß und somit oberster Stadtrichter. Man gehörte zur Hautevolee. Allerdings nur innerhalb der Stadtmauern. Der alte Graf hatte bei einer Besprechung auf der Burg neulich unserem Ur-Ur-Ur-Ur-UrGroßvater eine Maulschelle gegeben. Lebte man denn noch im finsteren Mittelalter? Der Schultheiß schaute aus dem Fenster: Nein, bei Gott nicht. Man lebte in einer riesigen Stadt von 8000 Einwohnern, wenn nicht noch mehr! Man war schließlich »Reichsstadt«, man unterstand nur dem König direkt, man gehörte keinem Herzog oder Grafen. Man war ein freier Mann.“
Joachim Fernau (11 september 1909 – 24 november 1988)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Peter Hille werd geboren in Erwitzen bij Nieheim op 11 september 1854. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2007.en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2009en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
Geranienrote Dächer
Vom nahen Holland fanden
Die Bürger froh sich ein,
Die Giebelguirlanden,
Die sich zum Willkomm wanden.
Nach 70 Prunkkasernen
Nun neuer Jugendschein.
Heines Geburtshaus
Ein leichtsinnkrankes Höfchen,
Ein Bäumlein und ein Hahn,
Das Häuslein da ein Zöfchen,
Hecktisch Champagnerschäfchen –
Das Bäumlein will nicht wachsen,
Dir Hahn kein Morgen nahn.
Peter Hille (11 september 1854 – 7 mei 1904)
De Poolse dichter en toneelschrijver Adam Asnyk werd geboren op 11 september 1838 in Kalisz. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
To The Young
The brightening flame of truth pursue,
Seek to discover ways no human knows.
With every secret now revealed to you,
The soul of man expands within the new.
And God still bigger grows!
Although you may the flowers of myths remove,
Although you may the fabulous dark disperse,
And tear the mist of fancy from above;
There’ll be no shortage of new things to love,
Farther in the universe.
Each epoch has its special goals in store,
And soon forgets the dreams of older days.
So, bear the torch of learning in the fore,
And join the making of new eras’ lore.
The House of the Future raise!
But trample not the altars of the past!
Although you shall much finer domes erect.
The holy flames upon the stones still last,
And human love lives there and guards them fast,
And them you owe respect!
Now with the world that vanishes from view,
Dragging down the perfect rainbow of delight,
Be gently reconciled in wisdom true.
Your stars, oh, youthful conquerors, they, too,
Will fade into the night!
Vertaald door Jarek Zawadzk
Adam Asnyk (11 september 1838 – 2 augustus 1897)
Portret door Jacek-Malczewski
De Schotse dichter en schrijver James Thomson werd geboren op 11 september 1700 in Ednam, Roxburghshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
Nothing Formed In Vain
Let no presuming impious railer tax
Creative wisdom, as if aught was form’d
In vain, or not for admirable ends.
Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce
His works unwise, of which the smallest part
Excceeds the narrow vision of her mind?
As if, upon a full-proportion’d dome,
On swelling columns heav’d, the pride of art!
A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads
An inch around, with blind presumption bold,
Should dare to tax the structure of the whole.
And lives the man, whose universal eye
Has swept at once th’ unbounded scheme of things;
Mark’d their dependence so, and firm accord,
As with unfalt’ring accent to conclude,
That this availeth nought? Has any seen
The mighty chain of beings, less’ning down
From infinite perfection, to the brink
Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss!
From which astonish’d thought, recoiling, turns?
Till then alone let zealous praise ascend,
And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power,
Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds,
As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun.
James Thomson (11 september 1700 – 27 augustus 1748)
De Ierse dichter Thomas Parnell werd geboren in Dublin op 11 september 1679. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
O Tell If Any Fate You See
O Tell if any fate you see
Can more unhappy prove
Than where the nymph will cruell be
& still the swain must love
Twere Joy to sigh & serve a fair
Coud sighs & service gain
But if they not availing are
they grow the lovers pain
Damon as thus he spoke his grief
Thought all around him pind
But Celia bringing no relief
He Car’d not what was kind
Thomas Parnell (11 september 1679 – 24 oktober 1718)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 11 september 2010.
De Amerikaanse schrijver, journalist en ontdekkingsreiziger Fitz Hugh Ludlow werd geboren op 11 september 1836 in New York.
De Duitse schrijver Johann Jakob Engel werd geboren op 11 september 1741 in Parchim, Mecklenburg-Schwerin.